


Before & After

by fandomlimb



Series: Carry On Countdown 2017 [1]
Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Carry On Countdown (Simon Snow), M/M, Pre-Carry On, Simon POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 21:09:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12826131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomlimb/pseuds/fandomlimb
Summary: Carry On Countdown Prompt Day 1: At WatfordA little glimpse into Simon's life pre-Watford.





	Before & After

##  **Before**

I thought it was a coincidence. The moment the thing inside me let loose (the red hot spiky thing that felt like a hand pushing my face under water and blood rushing in my ears louder than 100-foot drop waterfall), the heat pipes in the room burst and the sprinklers went off and the fire alarms kept blaring because the room was filled with smoke even though I couldn’t see any fire but I could smell it despite the water pouring down on our heads. There was screaming, naturally. And all the chaos you’d expect with four adults trying to evacuate twenty or so orphans with any semblance of order amidst a freak explosion of unknown origin. What ever happened to “stop, drop and roll”? “Duck and cover”? “Keep calm, carry on?” “Standard emergency procedures?” It was more like “Everyone yell as loud as you can and try to get the hell out of here right quick we need to take a headcount where the hell is the bloody fire brigade we’re all going to die so unbridled panicking is clearly the only option!”

Coincidence my arse.

My bunkmate at the time was a real rodent-faced bully named—get this—Rabbit. (Don’t think that was his given name unless his parents were real wackadoo hippy types so I can only assume he chose that noble moniker himself or it was foisted upon him as an insulting nickname and he chose to live with it and own it, which would have been cool if he weren’t such a sadistic prick). He was all pale and jumpy and the whites of his eyes always looked a little pink and he had really unfortunate stick-out-y ears and was probably the fastest kid in the home on the football pitch that year so it made a certain level of sense.   
  
Anyway, I hated him.   
  
I’d just turned 11, he was 13 and we were made to share a bunk in a room with two other lads. My strategy as far back as I could remember was the nose-down, keep-to-yourself, don’t-get-noticed method when it came to potential bullies but Rabbit had it out for me from the first day he moved in and tried to force me to give up my rightfully earned bottom bunk (which I had already set up with towels/jumpers hanging round for privacy curtains and all my pictures taped up to the wall). When I refused, he got all up in my face and the next thing I know we’re having it out and I accidentally slam him into a rung on the bunk’s ladder causing him to chip his front tooth (which gave him even more of a rabbit look, come to think). You’d think after that inauspicious beginning the powers that be would have thought it wise to switch his room, but no, not only did they keep us as bunkmates but I had to give up the bottom bunk and had my sports and telly privileges revoked for a month and was told that if I was caught fighting ever again they’d put me in for another transfer.  
  
Rabbit and I kept fighting after that but just not with any adults around. It was never that I wanted to—I honestly avoided him as much as I could—but the whole bunkmates thing put a damper on that particular strategy.  
  
The day the pipes exploded, Rabbit had me pinned to the ground and was performing his patented “B.B.” move (short for Bollocks Buster…not much further explanation needed) which in addition to the knee-to-bollocks situation also involved this Chinese water torture-style loogie move where he would let a bit of spit dangle slowly above my face while I could do nothing but squirm under the weight of his loathing and his muscles that had had two whole years more than mine to get to the point where it was not only easy but fun for him to ruthlessly torment a younger and smaller boy.   
  
I hated him so much right then and I wanted him off of me so badly I thought I would explode. And then I kind of did. Along with all the heater pipes on the 2nd floor of the care home.

##  **After**

After the explosion, after the funny guy with the long beard and posh accent and green cloak and weird tool belt showed up to let me know I’d be enrolling in a special school for kids with extraordinary talents like mine (‘What talents?’ I’d asked, genuinely curious because I’m rubbish at maths and only so-so at sports but he just smiled all Chesire Cat like and patted his chest and said ‘The talents right here’ as if that was any help at all) and after I was pretty sure he wasn’t a psycho  _here-kid-have-some-candy-it’s-in-my-van_  type because the other adults seemed to trust him (I suppose he brought some legitimate birth certificate papers with him though I’ve never seen them) and because he knew all about me, knew every home I’d lived in, every school I’d attended, and knew things sometimes spontaneously combusted when I was around (I’d thought I just had terrible luck with being around faulty explosion-prone electronics but it turns out I was the one doing the exploding, go figure), after he explained to me about Normals vs Magicians and told me I was ready to return at last to my rightful place in The World of Mages (which is not actually a “real” magical place, like how Narnia is, but more like a secret society, which was wicked confusing at first) and that he would be taking me to a place called Watford School of Magicks, (which is actually a real place) and that Watford would be my real home, if I wanted it be, for the next eight years. After my heart did a funny terrible leap thing when he said the words ‘real home’ and he gave me the choice whether to stay or go with him, after he gave a name to that ferocious monster-fireworks-lightning storm feeling inside me and called it ‘magic’, after I decided to believe him and trust him 100%, after I let myself, after we packed up all my worldly possessions and stuffed them in a duffel bag and traveled further than I’d had my whole life and ended up at the iron gates of an honest-to-god castle with an honest-to-god moat and flying buttresses and all that Medieval stuff, after I’d had my first taste of Watford food and nearly lost my god-damn head from how incredible it tasted, after it seemed liked I’d finally managed to scrape a bit of luck for the first time in my life and thought I might actually have a shot at a bit of happiness after all because as far as I could tell Watford was the happiest place in this world or any world full stop. It was only after all that that I realized I’d be forced to live with a roommate again who disliked me the minute he clamped eyes on me. I guess some things never change.

##  **At Watford**

At Watford, the parts of me that didn’t make sense before, the thing inside me that felt out-of-joint and freakish and too much pressure to stay locked up inside the walls of my body, well, that part of me still doesn’t make a ton of sense here but it’s at least more socially acceptable when I go off than it did when I was around Normals. (And the heater pipes must have some special magickal protection because they’ve never combusted around me here. Yet).

At Watford, I’ve got Penny. And Agatha. And The Mage. And Ebb and the goats. I’ve got The Sword of Mages, which comes when I call it. I’ve got lessons (and Penny to help me try to be less rubbish at lessons). Sometimes I’ve got football. Sometimes I’ve got VIP missions for The Mage. Sometimes all of Watford and everything and everyone in it feel like a part of me. Even Baz, as much as I’m loathe to admit it. 

Oh yeah, at Watford, I’ve got Baz. Even though I can’t really help that part. (It’s the damn Crucible’s fault). At Watford, I’ve got our room. The same room I’ve lived in the whole time I’ve been here. (I never had one place that was mine for that long before).

Rooms at the care homes were made of cinder blocks and had terrible florescent lighting and stains on the carpet and of course, the dreaded bunk beds. Some of the homes were better than others in trying to make the atmosphere cozier but the vibe across the board was more bunker/prison cell than Martha Stewart. We could put things up on the wall of course, which I did at first, until another kid tore it down or vandalized it or made fun. I learned pretty early on that it was best to keep the things I really cared about hidden.

At Watford, I’ve got a whole en suite (well, Baz and I have got a whole en suite). I’ve got a feather bed and a bathroom to ourselves (with a tub with claws and everything!) and a window that overlooks the moat and a desk and a wardrobe for my uniforms. The floors and furniture are made of dark, gleaming wood. The type of buttery wood you just want to rub your hands all over. I wish my cross was made out of the same dark wood, but it’s metal. (I should look into that, whether a wood cross would be a vampire deterrent or not. Probably not).

At Watford, I’ve got my (technically unconfirmed) suspicion that I’ve a roommate who’s a vampire that would love nothing more kill me and take down The Mage and all he stands for. Funny enough, I still prefer that over Rabbit.

At Watford, I’ve got the Humdrum after me and the mysterious magic holes and the prophecy to live up to. I’ve still got to fight. A lot. (Some things really do never change). But I have something now I didn’t have before. Hope.


End file.
